


Ａｓｈ ＆ Ｄｕｓｔ

by adolescence



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, But fuck that, Eventual Smut, Hurt Rhys, I don't know what to tag this because this is definitely new for me, M/M, Neglect, Pre-Series, Savior Jack, Starvation, Updating as I go, i should totally be sleeping, the first chapter has a bit of gore, what? there's actual plot to one of my fics? wow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolescence/pseuds/adolescence
Summary: Rhys was hurt, and starving. Above all, he was completely broke, with not a dollar to his name. The worn out shoes he was wearing were probably worth more than him as a person. And no one was going to give someone with a messed up eye and an absent limb work - not if they wanted the job done right. So the young man wanders aimlessly from place to place, dodging trouble. Though he doesn't do a very good job of it. Looking to climb the corporate later as quickly and painlessly as possible, Jack comes up with a solution. And the answer to all of his prayers lies in a boy he and other Hyperion workers come across fighting for his life in a Pandorian wasteland. This small, pathetic young man who'd been left to die could very well be his shot to the top. At least, something that would get him going in that direction. And he wasn't against keeping the boy alive purely for his own purposes.





	1. Figure it Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First off, I'd just like to say that this is my first multi-chapter fic based around Borderlands. I've written about it once before in a Rhack one-shot that I did recently (last week sometime, I think). Actually, this whole fandom is pretty new to me. I watched a playthrough of Tales from the Borderlands, but haven't seen 2 or the Prequel. I saw that _this_ ship was a big thing and I immediately began to fall in love with it and the world centered around it. I liked the whole Hologram!Jack thing, and being in Fanboy!Rhys' head like he was, even though the whole ending kind of killed me a little bit.
> 
> Anyway! So yeah. First multi-chapter Rhack fic. And also the first fic that I've done in _forever_ that wasn't just a one-shot. Like I said, I fell for this ship _hard_ (hehe) and _fast_.
> 
> Second, I'd just like to point out that, seeing as I've only watched Tales from the Borderlands, and I suck at keeping up with locations and other things in pretty much any kind of world, but especially one with whole different _planets_ , and just overall a way of living. The technology kills me, too. But I've done a bit of research on everything, so I hope that this is satisfactory. D: Ahhh, I don't know. Please don't hurt me.
> 
> Third of all, and moving on from my worries about this story, I would like to tell you a little more about this story, so maybe you won't get confused as you read.
> 
> Rhys _is_ sixteen years old at the start of this story, but that won't last long, nor do I plan for anything to happen (sexually) between him and Jack while he is this age. I'm not against it or anything fictionally, but that's just now how I'm planning on this to go. So, yes. Rhys _is_ sixteen now, but by next chapter I plan on skipping a few years, so literally it's just this chapter that he'll be completely sixteen. . . That makin' any sense to you? Lol. I'm so sorry.
> 
> John was Jack's name before he became "Handsome Jack", and I will be using this for a few chapters because, as I've aged down Rhys, I've also aged down John by a few years. He's still an adult, but I left his age ambiguous. Because I've aged him down like I have, and he's still "John", he hasn't yet started running things in Hyperion. He's still just small-fry for the most part, compared to what he will be. In this chapter, he _does_ work for Hyperion, and he will continue to do so throughout the chapters.
> 
> Another note I would like to add is that I'm just updating as I go along, meaning I don't have any chapters pre-written, so nothing is completely predetermined. Just the general direction in which I plan to go. That said, I'm warning you that my updates probably won't be very consistent.
> 
> Last thing, I'd just like to warn you about the gore that's in this chapter. I'm not sure whether or not it qualifies as descriptive or not, since I don't have a good say-so for those types o'things, but I will say that bandits get a hold of Rhys and it's not pretty. Poor little Rhysie. . . D:
> 
> Watch your step and have fun, darlings! ;)
> 
> (Not proofread.)

The light refracted from a star somewhere far off offered a young man some form of warmth as he trudged over a seemingly _endless_ Pandorian field. For the last four years, winter had plagued this planet, and unfortunately for the young man it would be three more years before he would ever feel the blistering heats that Pandora's atmosphere allowed. For now he was stuck with the freezing cold. The kind that froze him down to the core, cold. With little more than a couple shirts, a heavier jacket, a pair of worn pants, and some boots he'd salvaged from a junk yard of sorts when the soles of his other shoes had scraped down to the pads of his feet, narrowly avoiding one of Pandora's more hostile features in the process; a rather angry and overprotective mother skag.

 

His legs dragged now. Stiff. Like the rest of him in the frigid cold. The coat was warm, but not nearly warm enough to comfortably get through Pandora's unforgiving nights. The young man - rather, _boy_ , was more appropriate. He was merely sixteen years old. The boy managed, though. He was stubborn like that. Ever since his parents gave him the boot without so much as warning - therefore the usually well-prepared boy was, well, unprepared, and was pretty much left to fend for himself. They said he was a _burden_ , his parents did. Over things about him that he just couldn't control. And while that irked him, something bothered him even more. Why'd he and his folks have to chose to live _here_ of all places? Suppose it wasn't really a choice at all. But still. If his parents were going to chose to kick him out, couldn't they have been decent enough to do it on another planet?

 

The boy couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Again, it'd just been scraps. There wasn't much work someone was willing to give a scrawny, sixteen year old _boy_ with only one good arm and eye. His arm, it'd gotten completely blown off. Long story short, him and his folks lived in a bad part of town. His eye on the other hand (bad choice of words, perhaps), it had just deteriorated over time, like it was aging faster than the rest of him. Paler than his other eye, almost a kind of washed sky blue. He couldn't see very well out of it, but it still functioned somewhat. Most things just looked like, if he covered his good eye, a bunch of solid colored, fuzzy blobs. It was much too bad for any kind of glasses or cheaper sight-enhancing wear, or he would have invested in whatever it was no matter his financial situation. He would have made it work. Just like everything else.

 

Work, like he said, wasn't easy to come by, and so the boy wandered from place to place. He was able to get simple jobs, the ones that nobody else wanted, or that they were too insane to care about. Wherever opportunities presented themselves, the boy had at it, even if it was just for scraps. For anything with value. He'd done physically straining, degrading, humiliating work. Some of which he would like to forget. Like he mentioned, a lot of people on Pandora had a few screws loose (okay, maybe more than a few), so he had gotten some equally crazy requests. But he would do anything to stop the gnawing hunger clawing at his insides, or the winter air from being too harsh on his dry, crackling skin. A lot of times he just had to grit his teeth and hunker down between scraps of metal, in junk yards, in things of the like. Whatever he had to do to get by.

 

The boy felt exposed out in this desolate wasteland. Like some bandits were out there just itching to come across a weak little plaything to toy with. To pass around and rip apart. Ugh, he could almost hear the gnashing of their teeth, or whatever it was that they hid behind those creepy ass masks. To save himself from a dry heave, he decided to think about other things. Like how the surface of Pandora was slowly starting to warm in that early morning wintry way it does when the ice starts to melt a little, star bright and casting a cozy glow. Although it didn't look too much like that, the boy decided to hold onto that metal image. He felt almost warm being there in his mind, but all the more freezing for it.

 

The fantasy was soon swept away, pushed out with a giant shove, at the sound of engines rumbling in the distance. It had been so quiet before that the sound cut through the silence sharp and abrupt. The boy stopped moving immediately when he heard the far away yells and excited shouts. His heart was already pounding in his chest, feeling as if it were too big for his body. His breathing had picked up. All involuntary responses due to long time conditioning, of having to dodge these fuckers one way or another, or defend himself in whatever way he could manage. Every instinct in him was _screaming_ at him to find shelter, to find somewhere to hide away and protect himself from these psychopaths, but looking around the boy saw there was nothing. The wasteland truly sticking to what it was; just that.

 

Soon the boy began moving anyway. The rumbling of engines, the uproar of shouts and shrill voices, they were all getting closer at a rate that the boy knew he couldn't quite _outrun_ , even though both of his legs worked just fine. Starvation had not been kind to him. But flight or fight kicked in, survival imperative - he did **_not_** go through everything he'd been through just to die now. He refused to let that be his end. So he started running as fast as his tired, neglected legs could. The pace was pathetic, he knew, but it was all he could do. He had no weapon. He had no place to take cover. He. Had. _Nothing_. Nothing but the clothes on his back and the mostly empty pack slung over his bony shoulders. But, just like everything else so far, the boy was willing to give it everything he got and just _make it work_.

 

His knobby knees almost knocked together as he ran, the wobbly set to them more obvious as his pace increased. Walking had somewhat protected him from knowing the truth about how worse off he really was. But that wasn't something that he could really worry about in this moment. He needed to focus, to _concentrate_. He needed to make sure that he got through this, even though all of the odds of survival were definitely _not_ in his favor. He just needed to make it, in whatever way he could.

 

The thumping of his heart was so loud it distorted the voices in the shortening distance. Blood pounded in his ears, and his run was probably, at most, some sort of faster hobble. God, he was pathetic. The epitome of sad and lonely. There was no one to help him here, not now. And no one was going to be coming to his rescue. Not now, not ever. He had learned that he could only depend on himself for things like that, even though he was more cowardice than anything. When it came to fight or flight, it almost always meant _flight_ for him. Despite his desperate circumstances, he'd never even killed anyone, which was more than he could say for most of the population on Pandora. And these guys, the ones gaining on him, whoever they were, they were no different.

 

As the hobble he had set became increasingly unsteady, the boy had to keep himself from falling over. He kept muttering to himself, "Gotta keep goin'." Because that was exactly what he needed to do, even if it was pointless. If just for himself. To know that, if he died, which he isn't going to he kept reminding himself, that he had at least tried. That was all he needed to know to push himself forward, having to stop from time to time because of the imbalance to his limbs. If he fell over now, it terrified him to think that he wouldn't be able to get up again. Then he'd really just be a sitting duck, just waiting for them practically gift wrapped. The boy was determined; he was _not_ dying today. Though it might have been considered a mercy with his neglected, broken body, he refused to let himself think that way. He was going to survive, this Pandorian hellhole be damned.

 

So he ran. He ran as fast as his feeble legs would take him, keep his strides as long as he was able to cover as much ground as he could. It wouldn't be enough to outrun any sort of automobile, but, well. He'd try.

 

As the sounds drew closer - his heart feeling as if it were moments from bursting out of his freaking chest - the boy noticed that the sounds, the yelling, anyway, it was more distressed, more urgent, than excited. The voiced started to become clearer, though he still couldn't hear what they were saying, but they were enough that the boy began to doubt that whoever they were, that they were native to Pandora, meaning he could cross out Bandits. At least, the kind that wouldn't think twice about skinning him just for shits and giggles. There was a sudden hope, that maybe even if whoever these people were, they wouldn't kill him. Maybe they'd just drive by and not bother him at all. And, if they did want to hurt him, they wouldn't draw it out. But seeing as dying wasn't anywhere on his to-do list, his stance on that quickly dissipating and morphing into the _need_ to not let that happen.

 

It wasn't long before they were there, the convoys speeding along the dirt wasteland with loud roars as the drivers floored it. The rumbling of the ground beneath his feet told him that he was running out of time. There was nothing that he could see in any which way that would offer him any sort of protection. Not anything he could mold quickly into a weapon, nothing that could harbor him until they passed and went on to mess with someone else. The rumbling was getting louder and louder, the voices more boisterous, more crystalline, but with the blood pumping in the boy's ears he didn't hear a word of it. He ran desperately, even as the ground shook to a point that he thought he might just fall over. They were gaining, gaining.

 

And they went right passed him. Even as he stopped and crouched down on the ground, forehead pressed against the tops of his knees, his hand flying up to protect his head. When he peeked up from his crouched position he watched at least five of the Runners, ones he couldn't quite identify in the position he was, fly right passed him, the heat from the cars pleasantly warming him up as they passed one at a time. He recognized them, finally, as Dahl. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion and utter shock, not knowing what the hell was happening. Was all of that worry for nothing? Were they just going to leave him be? There was a slump to his shoulders, of being either relaxed or dumbfounded he couldn't put his finger on it. But that was before he heard what they were saying - when the pounding in his ears and chest, and the rumble of the cars weren't enough to garble the voices.

 

" _Go, go, go_!"

 

" _We're out_!"

 

" _They're gaining on us_!"

 

They didn't even seem to notice he was there at all, besides avoiding hitting him just barely a couple of times. The words, unfortunately, didn't kick in until the rovers were gone and he had managed, with the adrenaline pumping through his system, to stand up. Who's _they_? Almost so quick he fell over, he whipped his head around, his body half-facing back with his head. The boy gulped. His worries were _so_ not over. That was only confirmed when he caught the first pale sight of a Psycho mask. _Bandits_.

 

There was barely enough time to whip back around and start running again before they were going passed him, too, but not all of them. To the boy's horror, some of them stayed, riding motorized bikes and various other vehicles that he was too terrified to put a name to. The cackling and maniac laughter sent chills up the boy's spine, and he was frozen in place. On of the bikes pulled into the circle they'd created around him, hopping off the bike before stopping it, the thing continuing to speed along, right passed him, and into another one of the bandits, who let out a shriek as its runner was crashed into and the bandit itself went flying. The others didn't seem even remotely fazed by the scene that had unfolded.

 

"Mm, a pretty one!" The bandit who had jumped off its bike squealed, clapping its hands together excitedly as it leapt over to the boy whose legs suddenly felt more unstable than they had before.

 

Mismatched eyes wide, he turned and ran for it, the circle of vehicles be damned. He had the adrenaline to thank for his speed, because otherwise he would have been curled in on himself, lying helplessly on the ground. But before he could pass one, he was grabbed by the collar of his outer layers and pretty much thrown back into the center, a feat that was easily achieved considering how skinny he was. There were hoots and screeches of encouragement, some nonsensical phrases thrown at him, as he landed harshly on his back. He gasped, the hard landing knocking the air right out of his lungs. The way the bandits were circling in their vehicles, it was kicking up dust and making it hard to see around, but he saw the one bandit fixated on him finally close in, towering over him.

 

"So pretty I could wear your face like a hat!" It cheered, getting down in the boy's face.

 

A pathetic squeak sounded from him as he tried to scramble away, only able to do so much with one arm. God, they were going to eat him alive - and he meant that in the most literal way possible. Though, considering the leer he could practically _feel_ through their masks, that might have been sugar coating it.

 

"Oh, c'mon, little boy, we only wanna play! _Why won't you play with me_?!" He flinched as he was grabbed and slammed back into the ground, making any progress he'd made, what little he did, pointless. "GOD! I could just eat you! Bone lickin' good! Let me see what you've got hiding under there, big boy." The bandit started at his jacket, his clothes, and the boy fought it every step of the way. Squirming, kicking, all of it. Getting a right hook in that surprisingly cracked the mask, the bandit's head snapping dramatically to the side. It hurt for a second, but in his state it dulled quickly to a throb he'd probably end up feeling later - if there _was_ a later for him. There was a beat of silence from it. Then, slowly, it turned its head back. " _OH_! Little boy's frisky! God, I love it when they fight me! Bet your screams are as delicious as YOU ARE!"

 

It's lecherous tones and shrieks had the boy scrambling for _anything_ , but he was at such a disadvantage here, completely out of his depth. He was able to shrink away slightly when another bandit hopped from its vehicle and charged over, wanting a piece of the action. The bandit that had been over him screamed " _He's MINE_!" before lunging at the other, tackling it to the ground. He got a hold of the other bandit's shoulders, then his head, bashing his skull back repeatedly into the hard, cold surface beneath all of them. The boy almost let out a whimper when he heard a sickening _crack_ , and the bandit beneath the other stopped moving. The only sounds from the audience of bandits were more jubilant hoots, overly excited cheers.

 

"Where were we, sweet- HEY, why're you leaving me?" It jumped up from the corpse under it, tone melodramatic. The boy kept dragging himself, legs shaking too hard to stand. "Was it something I said?"

 

"COME BACK HERE! I wasn't finished with YOU!" It screamed, and there was a pressure on his back as it straddled him, it's small body proving dumbbell heavy to the smaller body beneath him. Lifting up just enough, it flipped him over so he was face-up and squealed delightedly as it sat back down on his sunken stomach, pinning his arm in the process, and making it impossibly hard to breathe. "It's okay, baby. I know you didn't mean it!" It got down, low in his face. The boy tried to turn away, craning his neck, but it just grabbed his face with both hands. His skin was crawling at the feel of its clammy, tough skin. "Look at me when I'm staring at you!"

 

Against the boy's every other instinct, he looked up at the bandit. There wasn't much choice whenever the hands on him jerked his head forward. He was freaking petrified, and all of him useless against this bandit.

 

" _Oh_. Look at those eyes! I want one!" It lowered its face to the boys, its mask nearly touching him. "But they're both so pretty! How do I choose? I know! The blue one!" He released the boy, and his slightly raised head dropped to the ground. "Give me the blue one!"

 

"Give me one, too!" Another demanded.

 

"NO!" It roared. "They're MINE!"

 

Unfortunately, there was no battle over his _eyeballs_ to distract them so that maybe he could get away, and the bandit turned its attention back on him. It whipped out a knife from a makeshift holster along its torn pants and the blade gleamed in the early morning light as it held it out. The boy's eyes went wide. He was so totally, and completely, fucked. They were going to take his eyes. They were going to skin him alive. They were going to use him, draw out his death. Another kind of fear in him rose up like bile, making him feel nauseous. Awkward position alone, if anything had been in his stomach, he would have coughed it up in this moment. It disturbed him to think that it would only excite them even more, but he couldn't think about that now. Not when he was about to have his eyes cut out.

 

Maybe he'd bleed out before they got to his other eye. With his survival dwindling, one could only hope.

 

"Stay still for me precious! Wouldn't want me killing you too early. We're just getting STARTED!"

 

The boy was determined not to beg for his life because he knew that these guys didn't care about that. It was impossible to negotiate with these psychopaths, impossible to bargain. If anything, his begging would just entice them. Make them want to really _hurt_ him. And screaming would just encourage them, but as the knife drew closer to his bad eye, the 'blue' one that the bandit wanted, he knew that it was going to be unlikely he'd avoid making any sounds. Bracing himself, he tried to stretch his neck farther away, but it was restricted. The knife got closer and closer, the grey blob it was in that eye, the boy let out a whimper. If his heart hadn't been pounding before, it sure as hell was now.

 

Even though he'd been given such a dysfunctional eye, the pain was still excruciating. He hadn't even imagined that kind of pain was possible, and he'd had his arm blown off before. To be fair, the explosion knocked him out, so when he woke in a white room he was high off his ass on pain killers. Achy and drained, but still saved from the worst of it. This, right here, it was so much worse. Being conscious, feeling the blade cut around his eye- well, he couldn't hold back the blood curdling scream that erupted from his lips.

 

The bandit's hand was shaky with what could only be excitement in the beginning and cut his eyebrow first, then dragged the jagged blade down to the socket, over his eyelid. His left eye filled with blood, blinding him completely on that side. His lips were wet with spit and desperation as pleas poured from them, unable to stop himself. He wasn't a fighter. They were going to strip him down, skin and bone. They were going to make him bleed and scream. Gag on his own blood, and they were going to laugh as they watched. And. And he was _scared_.

 

There was this _awful_ sound that penetrated the air, cut through all of the chaos, the gleeful cries and cheers from the little _audience_ around them, so sharp and appalling it would have scared him even more if he knew it wasn't coming from himself. He barely heard the delighted shrill from the bandit over him "He's a SCREAMER!", too wrapped up in his own agony as the blade bore down on his eye, and there wasn't nothing he could do to stop it as the bandit cut away at him. And through all of it, he couldn't stop the sounds that wracked his entire body.

 

It seemed like an eternity later that the knife was pulled from the bloody socket that was once his eye, but the pain didn't cease. He'd screamed himself hoarse, so all of the sounds he made were empty, silent cries. The pain radiated all over his face, right down to his very core. He barely managed to look up with his good eye - _his only eye, now_ \- and see the bandit raise up his bloodied hand, forefinger and thumb pressed around a pale, equally bloodied orb. His fucking _eye_. Ruined, a horrendous sob tore from his raw throat, one with surprising substance. It rang out, but the things around him didn't seem to mind. He wriggled his body, thrashing underneath the bandit as it held up his eye like some kind of trophy. The urge to clutch the bloody hole in his face was as nauseating as the pain, but he couldn't. His face was wet with blood, and it just kept coming. How was he still conscious? How was he still _alive_?

 

"So good, I want another!" It said, but the boy had his eye closed, but felt the body on him shifting. "That it, cry for me! GOD, it gets me right in the NETHERS!"

 

"LET ME HAVE A PIECE!" Another shrieked.

 

"NO! ME!"

 

"NO!" The bandit screamed, hopping off of the boy's body.

 

The boy's left arm came up to cup the left side of his face to protect the bloody socket, as if that was going to do anything significant. As he reopened his eye, he noticed his vision spotting. His limb felt heavy, almost too heavy to keep it up there against his wound. With the pain no longer enough to keep him alert, his head was clouding over, feeling almost as if he were underwater. Deep, _deep_ underwater with the pressure on his limbs and body pinning him to the hard ground under him. It took a lot to roll over onto his side and curl in on himself, no longer having the focus to move and get out of there. The rumbling in his immediate vicinity stopped, he noticed just barely. He coughed and sputtered. There was commotion, but he didn't will himself to look in the direction it was coming from. Probably another fight. More skulls being cracked open. More masks cracking as they cackled away.

 

Another low, thunderous sound reverberated throughout the plain. It was farther off, but just barely. He felt it more than he heard it, the blood in pounding in his ears shrouding his hearing like his impaired vision. He didn't care what it was, come more Dahl or a pack of Skags, he was done. Let them tear away at him, maybe the Skags would be more merciful. He wondered briefly if his parents would ever find out about this. If they'd even care enough to spare him a second thought if they knew. If they'd be sad, or if they'd feel relief. Even though he had decided he didn't care about what they thought of him anymore, he still feared the latter.

 

A shot rang out and drew him from his thoughts of self destruction and pity. He was still _conscious_ , and despite being in unimaginable pain without the thick of adrenaline, there was a renewed sense of _fight_ left in him. He opened his eye, his spotting vision just allowing him to see for a moment before blacking over. But he had seen enough. He'd seen those assholes hop back on their bikes and start to ride off, running over their buddies if it meant they got out of there, an abrupt, urgent shift in the air around him. He could only feel it in the end, with his vision and hearing both failing him. He was dizzy, like standing to fast, but he was lying down. It should have been scarier. Especially when the rumbling of the bandits' vehicles faded and the vibrations in the ground grew with more vigor.

 

He didn't even flinch when he managed to hear a few voices, but they were normal voices. As normal as they could be when they sounded so far away with his body throbbing the way it was, distorting them somewhat. There were calls and shouts, but nothing stood out to him, not in the slightest. Perhaps if he'd been in better shape when the bandits decided to do this to him, he'd be able to push himself up. Maybe even stand. But he wasn't, so he couldn't. As much as he wanted to fight, there was the heavy lull of sleep, tempting him to relax and fall. And as much as he wanted to crawl away, make it across this wasteland and maybe, just maybe, find someone who could help him, he couldn't seem to find the strength to unclench his cramping hand from his face. God. Sleep had really never sounded better.

 

"That one of them?"

 

"That one is. But this one's not." 

 

"Is he still breathing?"

 

Rumble, rumble. The noises the cars were making sounded kinda funny to him, almost enough to giggle. Almost. He imagined this was the part where his eyelids would start to feel heavy, but one of them was sliced up if not gone entirely, and the other one was already closed. If these guys. . . if these guys would just. . . would just _stop_. Stop talking. Maybe. What was happening?

 

Warmth against his neck. A small pressure. It was almost soothing, and help lull him the extra way. Everything was fading out by the time he felt something at his shoulder, pushing him. Pushing him where? Up. Up is what it felt like. Why were they pushing him up when he was trying to go to sleep? Rude. He just wanted to close his eyes - _woopsie_ , hehe - _eye_ for a little bit. What was the harm in that? Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes and he'd be fine, he'd be able to try again. He'd still be fighting for his life in a couple of minutes, right? Just let him _sleep_. He was so tired.

 

"Yeah, but just barely."

 

"What are you waiting for, then? Bring 'em in! Could be one of the Dahl."

 

"Not Dahl-" The voices were warped and fading in and out now, making this feel all like a _really_ bad trip. ". . . too scrawny. . . probably just a. . . he. . ."

 

So close. . . Yeah. There we go. Good sleep. Sleep is good. Very good.

 

But just as soon as he finally felt himself surrendering to his wounds - to his poor shape, to starvation, and maybe even a bit of dehydration, too - he felt a sharp pain in the side of his thigh, and almost immediately after the fact his heart was beating fast again, so freaking fast. Burst out of his chest fast. His eye flew open and he was looking around frantically. The pain was there, but just barely.

 

"Hey, hey, easy there, kiddo," A strong voice said, and it was startlingly close to him. The boy's eye settled on a face of hard lines and chiseled features. He found mismatched eyes, one of a brilliant green and another of an icy blue. They were looking right back at him. No, not him. His eyes were flicking back and forth between, yes, his eye, but also his hand, which was still cupped over the fleshy hole in his face. The man gave a low whistle, "Son of a _taint_ , that looks painful. Talk about tough break, kid." It was almost sympathetic, what he was saying. If the boy had been in a right state of mind, he would have realized that the way the man was looking at him was like one would discovering something with potential. A diamond in the rough. "Listen, if you want to live, you're gonna have to just stay awake for me, alright? Think you can do that?"

 

The boy couldn't find the will to answer the other, not verbally, at least. But he found that his head was nodding, up and down, over and over in his woozy state, desperate.

 

"Okay, awesome, Pumpkin. 'Cause I'm not gonna through all this work to try and keep you alive if you're just going to die on me," The man smirked above him. Something stilled his head. "Don't nod your damn head off, now. You don't have much _else_ to lose, kiddo."

 

He really didn't. So the boy swallowed, kept his head still. The man released his hold there, only holding him upright by the hand at his back, the lean arm wrapped around him. The rush that had once flooded his body was starting to die off already, or maybe his body's will and lacking physical capabilities were just too much, overpowering whatever the man had dosed him with. This eyelid was getting heavy, his head lulling back momentarily before snapping back into place. _Gotta stay awake_. Even though he so wanted to nap. Napping meant death. And death meant, well. . . _death_. Kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it?

 

The boy was being lifted up, feeling the pressure of the man's other arm hooked under the bends of his knees. He already felt like he was floating, and not the pleasant high he's known before; it was an uncomfortable, losing yourself kind of feeling that left his head heavy. So all of this lifting business didn't help matters. It wasn't until a few steps later that he actually realized the man was talking to him again, the guy jostling him in his arms a little as he walked. Something about staying awake, probably. Carefully, and with everything in his body fighting him, he tuned back in.

 

"-name?"

 

It took a moment, but all he could do was furrow his brow at the other.

 

"Your name, sweetheart. As in, what is your _name_?" The man clarified, and the boy was too out of it to detect the impatience there.

 

"Mm," He tested his voice, and even the hum was unsteady and cracked halfway in the middle. His throat protested every vibration of his vocal chords, the entire column _raw_. "R. . . _Rhys_."

 

"Rhys? Seriously?" The man snorted, arms tightening around him as he carried him into the back on one of their cars. One of the bigger ones, it looked like, with plenty of people in them. They were armed, but Rhys couldn't find himself caring. The man shook his head. "Well, Rhysie, I'm John," All Rhys could do in return was make a small noise of acknowledgement that probably got garbled up by the engines firing, of bullets flying, people shouting commands. "I'm the guy who just saved your life."

 

"'M so tired. . ."

 

"I know, Cupcake. But you can't sleep right now, okay? Gotta stay awake a little longer."

 

"But-"

 

"Nope. No sleep for you. Just got to stay awake a little longer, and then you can sleep as long as you want. That sound good?"

 

"I can't. . . my-"

 

"Figure it out, kiddo."

 

Rhys was being lowered onto something - something _soft_ , he noted appreciatively - and the arms slipped from under him, his full weight on, what was it? Some kind of cot? With how much blood he'd lost, combined with the insanity that was Rhys' life today, the ache in his eye was very much _there_ , but it wasn't nearly as bad as if should have been. Something told him he should have been in a lot more pain. When the pain isn't excruciating anymore, doesn't that mean you're on death's door? Your body's way of easing you into unconsciousness. He fought sleep, though. He hadn't gotten this far - he hadn't gotten _saved_ just to die now. Screw that. He was gonna have to grit his teeth and just keep his eye open. Think about something, anything, to keep him lucid.

 

There was a sharp pain in his arm, much like the one that had been in his leg before he nearly had a heart attack, but this time- oh. This time he felt. . . he got _really_ sleepy. So sleepy that he thought he was dreaming when, again, he caught a mismatched gaze staring right back at him. God. Those eyes. They were - they were freaking _dreamy_. One grassy green, the other like a clear pool of water. Or blue cotton candy. Cotton candy, that. That sounded really. . . really good. He almost- ugh. What was he thinking about, again?

 

"You can sleep now, kiddo. Don't fight it."

 

The boy's lips pulled into a smile, hand slipping from his face as he closed his eye. A good, numbing feeling washed over him. Yeah. Sleep sounded good.

* * *

Rhys' body was achy and sore when he came to, but he didn't open his eyes at first. Just laid there and took it in. Any shift of his body felt awful, anywhere from sharp pricks to major throbbing. He didn't want to move. Didn't even want to _think_. Especially about how he ended up like this, but things didn't always happen the way anyone wanted them to, and the memories started flooding back anyway. Hunger, thirst. The ache in his knees, in his ankles. The way all of his joints felt as if they were grinding together, no cartilage to stop the friction. The overwhelming fear that made him sick to his empty stomach. Rumbling. He remembered the Dahl, just barely recalling their Runners being some of the last things he saw before- uhm, before. . . Before what? Like scratching at a rash, he wracked his brain for answers. His mind subconsciously knew what happened, but it was tucked away, hidden. But he knew it was bad, if the knots forming rapidly in his stomach were any indication. God, he almost felt like he was going to be _sick_. Like, really sick. His head throbbed, protesting the strain on his mind.

 

The bandits.

 

It all came back. How they circled him, and that one that- that-. He had been thrown to the ground, too weak to stand again. He remembered the bandit hopping on him and flipping him over. He remembered the knife. He remembered- _oh sweet Elpis_.

 

His eye.

 

Rhys gasped loudly, the pain in his throat as cool air ran against it searing like breathing in shards of glass, yanked his arm up. Or, at least, the boy tried to. Something was there, stopping him. Oh- oh god, no. He was still there, under that same bandit. _That's_ why he couldn't move his arm. He must have just passed out, then. And that meant he was still in danger. Every instinct in his body ignited at once, more instantaneous than any domino effect. Desperation returned full force. His heart was thrumming from his panic. His eye, finally, flew open, and the searing pain in his head tripled as light flooded his vision. He let out a hoarse groan and closed his eye again.

 

"Hey- hey. Kiddo. Calm down, alright? You're just gonna end up hurting yourself."

 

The voice startled him enough to have another go at opening his eyes. The light wasn't so bright then, but it still took a long moment of squinting and blinking for things to focus. White. A very - and he means _very_ \- white room. Mostly blank aside from curtains that could be drawn around his bed. There was a machine beside the bed he was laying on, numbers changing on the screen. There were chairs, too. And then his gaze settled on a man so close to him that he was surprised that he hadn't found him first. He wasn't in his personal space, but he wasn't a few feet away sitting in one of those chairs, either. He blinked a few times, taking in the man's familiar, chiseled face. The mismatched eyes that were staring so intently at him it made him uneasy. He looked at the man's clothes, which weren't extravagant, but they were probably still worth more than Rhys was worth. His eyes settled on a white printed _H_ on the man's jacket. It took a split moment for it to click. _Hyperion_. Rhys shrunk into the bed he was lying on, his eyes wide. Wait.

 

His _eyes_. Plural.

 

Rhys tried to reach up again, pointlessly, because there was still something holding it down. The pain in his eye - it was almost nonexistent save for the throbbing that was just in his head in general. And he couldn't even remember the last time he was able to see this _clearly_. There was a clinking sound. If it wasn't the bandit, then why the hell couldn't he lift his arm? Panic was rising up again because he didn't know what was going on, or where he was. It was safe to assume some kind of hospital, but how? This man? He looked down his body, covered in white sheets, until he came across his arm, finding a leather cuff around his wrist, trapping him to the bed. His eyes were immediately drawn from that to the yellow, plastic-ish metal contraption laying along the right side of his body, finding an identical leather hand cuff around what looked like the wrist of the mechanical. . . arm? Yes. That was definitely an arm.

 

Confused and admittedly a little scared, he went to pull against the restraints, watching as both his flesh arm and the arm-like mechanical thing move in sync.

 

"Oh god, what the-" Rhys couldn't even finish what he was trying to ask. There was that feeling again, the panic, his stomach again starting to knot. "What's-"

 

"Oh, what. That?" The man gestured to the yellow mechanism hooked up to him. "That's just your new arm, Pumpkin!" He smirked.

 

The odd endearment brought the name _John_ to mind. Yes, that was the man's name. _John_.

 

"New. . . arm?" Rhys' lips parted in an O, trying to figure it all out. Surely this was a dream. As he went about clenching his fist, the metal ligaments in his _'new arm'_ obeyed. He watched as the metallic fingers curled in on themselves, towards the plated palm. He knew about these types of _'replacement parts'_ for those who had lost their limbs, but none of them looking quite like this. Nor as functional seeming. And yet, all the same, the prosthetics were still so far away from his price range that they may as well have been on Helios. "That's not-. . . That's not _possible_."

 

John rolled his eyes. " _Obviously_ , Cupcake, it is." Without so much as a warning, the man reached over to the mechanical arm, and it moved with him as he pointlessly tried to evade the stranger's touches. "Easy there, sweetheart. I'm not gonna bite," He assured, but paused anyway, looking at Rhys with dark eyes. "Not yet, anyway," A predatory grin pulled at the man's lips, earning a whimper from the boy. Seeming satisfied with Rhys' reaction, John chuckled and reached out again, large hand running fingers down the mechanical arm. "This is actually my own design. My own technology. The works." John was looking at the arm almost as if he were admiring it. Rhys could almost see the pride there, in his own work. Pulling out of his thoughts, the man's eyes ran up to the boy's face. "Even that eye."

 

"My-my eye?"

 

"Yep, Rhysie. All _mine_. You're welcome." John grinned, but it was humbled with a shrug. "Just experimental, of course."

 

"Experimen-"

 

"Don't worry, Cupcake. Nothing _bad's_ gonna happen. Well, besides that little bug in the eye piece. It was just kind of a roll of the dice with the coding there," John tapped against his own temple. "You'll either be perfectly fine, or it might blow your head to bits." He clicked his tongue, looking down. Rhys stared with wide eyes, horror written all over his face. When John looked up and saw the look on Rhys' terrified, shocked face, he couldn't help the hearty laughter that had him practically buckling over, and Rhys didn't know how to react. "KIDDING! I was _kidding_. Whew, kiddo. You shoulda seen your face!" It was seconds later before the laughter of the _insane_ man - yes, Rhys was already convinced - died down. John straightened himself back up, a couple more lingering, fading chuckles on his lips. He looked to Rhys, arching his brow at the level of seriousness on the boy's face. "Bad joke?"

 

"Very."

 

"You're just too sensitive, Cupcake. Gotta lighten up a bit every one in awhile." John said.

 

"How did I-"

 

"Shh, Pumpkin, and _relax_ ," John said, rounding the hospital bed in just a few, long strides. His eyes were on the machines, looking them over. "I'm not quite done uploading all of the information into your port just yet, and you're body's not done repairing itself. The doc said something about an _adjustment period_. And I'm sure you have lots of questions, yadda yadda, but I _really_ don't care. _Anyway_ , I'll be here the next time you wake up," He winked, verging on flirtatious, but stopped then, furrowing his brow momentarily before looking like he came to some kind of internal conclusion, finally just shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe not. Yeah, probably not. We'll see, Cupcake." And with that, he started to turn the little knob on one of the machines he was hooked up to. Wait, no! He had so many questions!

 

"Wait-!"

 

Rhys couldn't even get out a single word completely before his head lulled back and his world - _once again_ \- faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my lovely readers!
> 
> I'm so sorry about the long wait on this chapter. I think it's almost been what now... a _year_? Jesus. Have any of you stuck around? xD I'm so sorry. o(╥﹏╥)o
> 
> I kept writing it sporadically over all of that time, and so I'm not too sure about the flow, but _fuck it_. You guys are finally going to get a goddamn chapter if I have anything to say about it. I think what my problem was that I just wasn't amped up enough to write this section, and I just really wanted to get to the good stuff, but here we have it. This bridge that's going to make that possible. (✿◠‿◠)
> 
> Anyway, here you go. ^-^

Rhys lost count of how many times he'd woken up and been knocked right back out, and he was _sure_ that there had to be a few times he didn't even remember. Though he was awake in those little spurts, he was far from lucid. That first time that he could remember, with the man who had saved him, was the most aware he'd been since the incident with the bandits. Everything else just blended together, making it impossible to tell how many days had passed. And since there were no windows in his room, he wasn't even sure what time of day it was. What freaked him out all the more was the way the drugs affected him - making his head all cloudy and his memory fuzzy. They got rid of the pain for the most part, but he was so relaxed that most of the time he didn't even care where he was, or what these people coming in and out of his room, prodding him, were doing. He just didn't care.

 

He heard the doctors - yeah, he managed to figure that out on his own - sometimes. But other times they talked in what sounded like code, or a different language, but he knew it was just doctor speak. Where he lacked in courage, Rhys made up for in brains, but not even he could decipher some of the things spoken. Fortunately, he was able to get some things. His arm, for instance. They talked about how his body was accepting the mechanical appendage, something about it reacting well to whatever simulations they put it through. That would start to worry him, make him wonder what all they did to him as he slept, but before he'd get any answers, they would just knock him back out.

 

One time, Rhys remembered, he had been almost _violent_. Not with intent to hurt, but he was just confused, and scared, and _horribly_ disoriented. He'd forgotten all about the bandits and his eye again just to have it resurface like the first time, but only worse. Red flashes and screams. It was enough to scare anyone up a wall. And being restrained to an unknown bed in a strange place didn't help matters, nor did the doctors' reluctance in telling him things. It was _his_ body! Shouldn't that earn him the right to know what the hell they were doing to it?

 

All he could tell for sure was that he had a new eye that was safe to assume was mechanical, too, like his new arm. He also knew that, despite the doctors keeping him on bed rest - forcing him on bed rest, more like - his body had to be responding well to whatever they were doing. He could move his arm without thinking about it, feel the metal curl in on itself as he would clench his fist. In the short times he was awake, he even took to tapping his fingers along the side of the bed; forefinger first, middle finger, index finger, pinky, and repeat. He wasn't trying any physical therapy type things, he was just getting a feel of having his arm back. Okay, well, maybe it wasn't his old, flesh arm, but it was the closest he was going to get for now with this experimentation. And his eye - now that was working, too. He had never been able to see quite this well in all his life. Or, at least, since he was an extremely small child, but who could remember those years enough to appreciate them? Each time he would wake up, he was able to look straight ahead and see so much more along the left side of the room. It was just insane, all of the changes.

 

The last time he woke up, his arms were free, and he couldn't help the wonder in his eyes as he watched himself move that mechanical arm with ease. By this time, almost all of the pain had gone away, now lingering just the sore ache along his body from laying down for too long, and maybe a little bit of it had something to do with the drug abuse. But, regardless, he didn't mind that so much. Especially since he remembered the pain he had experienced prior, and the kind of agony he was in that made him start to tap with his flesh arm nervously, still watching as he twisted and turned the other one, movements surprisingly smooth for a hunk of metal. He wondered if he'd have to oil it and smiled stupidly at the silly thought. _Having to oil your own arm_. On the pain killers, it almost made him giggle.

 

By the time Rhys had gotten his wits about him, the clock read _6:18_ , but in the morning or afternoon, he had no clue. Regardless, he decided that he'd been here long enough, as far as he was concerned, so he started to get up. Before he was able to place his feet on the floor, he was yanked back with a pinch of one of the tubes he was hooked up to. Wincing a little at the sharp pain, he took a deep breath and pulled the IV from his flesh arm, pulled the pads connected to these wires off of his forehead, temples, and chest. Finally, he had freed himself. With that in mind, and a smug smile on his face, he stood, taking his first step.

 

All too fast.

 

A rush went to his head, making him see spots in his normal eye, and his legs. Oh _fuck_ , his legs. They buckled under him so quick it left him no time to catch himself. At least, he thought so. His mechanical arm swung out, narrowly saving Rhys from doing a nosedive into the linoleum. He just sat there, on his knees, hunched over where his arm bent to the floor, his new mechanical fingers played over the cold floor with his eyes wide. Crisis averted. He let a relieved sigh escape him, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding since the little stumble.

 

"Pretty freakin' cool, huh?"

 

The voice startled him enough to whip his gaze up, eyes catching on the mismatched ones staring back at him. John.

 

John stood there, chiseled face dark and lips curled into a kind of smirk that made Rhys want to run. Contrary to that urge, they also made him stay completely still, not a muscle in his body flexing as he stared at the other. There was that feeling again, deep in the pit of his stomach, unsettled. That's not exactly the way one would think another would feel around their acclaimed _savior_ , but here he was. But perhaps that was more because of the experimentation he'd been apart of over the course of the last few unconscious days. Or maybe it was just the innate distrust in people he had, only callousing with everything that had happened to him on Pandora. Was he still _on_ Pandora? Probably not. Especially considering this guy was Hyperion. Anyway. Whatever the reason behind it, he did _not_ feel safe around this man.

 

John shook his head and sighed, straightening up from where he'd been leaning on the door frame. As the man uncrossed his arms from over his broad chest, Rhys couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been standing there. Surely not that long; Rhys might have been a little loopy with the pain meds and whatever else they had him doped up with, but he sure as hell didn't see that man looming in the doorway before he'd had the genius idea to get up. Definitely not. He must have arrived just in time to see him avoid biting it.

 

"You don't have to look at me like that, Pumpkin," John almost _pouted_ , and somehow made even that seem intimidating. "I'm not here to bite. Just came to come and check in on the merchandise." He wiggled his fingers for emphasis, referring to Rhys' new appendage.

 

Rhys blinked a couple times at the other, like the words weren't sticking - because they weren't - and then he had his try at getting up.

 

"Here, let me help you-" John was already in front of him, hand extending for Rhys to take it.

 

"I think. . . I think I've got it, alright?" He muttered, maybe a little more harsh than he intended, but he could manage to stand by himself, if he had anything to say about it. If John noticed the snippy comment, he didn't make it obvious he had. Instead, he took back his hand, and Rhys thought he'd done it to let him have a go, so he put a foot under himself. He winced as he wobbled a bit.

 

"Like hell you do," John huffed, and before Rhys was able to protest, arms were hooking under his and pulling him up to his unsteady feet. He barely got out a "Hey!" before he was literally swept off his feet, John's arms under the bends of his knees and around his back. He remembered this hold from before, except this time he wasn't losing copious quantities of blood. "You know, _I'm_ the one who told the doctors that they should let you wake up without those straps. Maybe that was a mistake?" Before Rhys could protest, he was dropped onto the hospital bed without so much as a hint of grace, like a laughable damsel. Lips dropping into a frown bordering on scowl, Rhys wriggled his body in order to get situated back on the bed. The younger man's eyes landed on the other's, whose were just as smug as they'd been moments before. The glare Rhys was sending his way didn't go unnoticed, as the older man raised his hands as if in surrender. "Easy there, kitten," He lowered his arms. "As much as I like seeing you _restrained_ , I don't think there's any use for it. 'Cause you're not gonna try anything _stupid_ , right?"

 

Whatever courage he'd had to send a cold look that man's way vanished with a simple, double-sided sentence. Innocent on the surface, but in the context - _and_ in the threatening way he looked at him - it was as deadly as any knife. Or gun. It sent that ballsy spur cowering back in the corner were it belonged. Rhys' lips were momentarily stunned like the rest of him and couldn't form words, so he just nodded a couple jerky times instead, watching helplessly as the man stepped closer to the cot. Uncomfortably close, and seeing as he was a very intimidating stranger, close wasn't necessarily all that close. How did this man hold so much power over him in the short amount of time they've known each other? Rhys didn't know anything about the guy other than that his name was John and he worked for Hyperion. Perhaps that's where the intimidation factor kicked in; it was all in the mystery.

 

As John leaned in, though, mismatched eyes intent on his mechanical arm, Rhys put that theory to rest. It wasn't that he didn't know the man. It was because he was just. . . _him_. There was just something about him that was off, and Rhys couldn't quite pinpoint it exactly.

 

"Hyperion looks good on you," John commented absently, fingers making a line down the metal arm, but not _quite_ touching him. "Or maybe it just suits you better than Pandora."

 

"I don't think Pandora 'suits' _anybody_." Rhys found his voice, swallowing around a lump in his throat as he resisted the urge to pull his arm away from the other.

 

"Very true," He chuckled, mismatched eyes coming up to meet his. The man let his hand fall to the bed rail, large hand wrapping around the bar. "I think I'm gonna like you, kiddo."

 

Rhys' cheeks began to burn at that, his teeth hooking on his bottom lip as he looked down at his hands which were resting on his thighs, both of metal and of flesh. After the isolation on Pandora, all save for the company of a questionable crowd here and a curious crowd there, being in the company of someone a little less _insane_ \- or maybe not, it was too soon to tell - made him uncomfortable. Being in the company of anyone made him uncomfortable, but especially now. It was almost like he had forgotten how to act in front of other people. Like he was feral or something, but considering his ambitions, he was far from it.

 

John, thankfully, didn't seem too bothered by Rhys' lack of response. The man alternatively took up looking Rhys up and down, eyes raking over the lot of him. Rhys' face felt hotter at the realization and he made a move for the covers, as if that would shield him from this man's intent gaze. John merely swatted the kid's hands away, to which Rhys immediately retracted them, and continued to watch him. It would have been creepy given anyone else was looking at him the way John was. It was like he wanted a bite, like Rhys was something to devour. But with John, it wasn't quite like that at all. John looked at him like there was something to be gained there. Like Rhys was purely an object and a valuable one at that. One that he could use and have at his disposal. For some reason, as much as it left Rhys feeling uneasy, it reassured him that his end wasn't coming anytime soon. There was value in his life. For once in all of these years he'd been alive, he was worth something. There was something substantial in that thought, and it soothed whatever worries clouded his mind.

 

Although he'd been through all of these, uhm, _experimentations_ , for once in a really long time, he felt as if he were going to be okay. Maybe he wouldn't always be safe, or even worth anything, but for now he accepted the apparent idea that he was.

 

Without so much as a warning, John was reaching out and sliding his hand around Rhys' wrist. Against his instincts, Rhys stayed still and allowed the other's free hand to cup under his elbow. His mismatched eyes ran over the length of the appendage, taking in every metal inch of it. Rhys shifted uncomfortably, but didn't try to tug his arm back because, heh, this guy was the reason he had this arm in the first place. Besides. Rhys was too busy watching the other; there was a glint in his eye. One that Rhys thought he'd seen once before.

 

“This. . . _this_ , Pumpkin. It’s gonna take me straight to the top,” John’s eyes practically _glimmered_ as he drank the in the younger male. His eyes, as bright and devious as ever, looked straight into Rhys’, flicking back and forth between organic and man-made. They settled on his man-made eye, and the older man’s gaze turned hard, almost twisted. Rhys realized, then, what that glint was in his eye; dollar signs. “And I’m taking you with me.”

 

The younger male sat back, eyes widening a fraction. He swallowed, the sound audible but ignored all the same. John's words hung in the air like smog, blanketing the silence. Rhys didn't reply - he didn't need to. But one thing was for sure.

 

Rhys didn't feel so safe anymore.

* * *

John came and went periodically throughout the following days. Mostly checking in on his progress and making sure everything was up to boot, including the programming to his arm and eye. Rhys still wasn't used to having those parts of him in tact. His broken body had been just barely scraping by for so long. . . it was understandable for him to feel a little weird about it, still. Not that he wasn't grateful, because he was, it was just a lot to get used to in such a small period of time. One minute he's on the brink of starvation in a Pandorian wasteland, on death's doorstep, and next he's on Helios being cared for by the best John could offer - which alone was something substantial. And he wasn't starving anymore, which was good, but it would take awhile longer before he'd start to look anywhere near the weight he needed to be.

 

But, progress was progress.

 

Not long after that, John had new people coming in and basically - and there was no other word for it - beautifying him. Rhys was confused on the details, but he needed to look good for something important coming up. They waxed and plucked every strip of hair from his body other than what was on his face and and head. He was hairless from the neck down, and he meant _everywhere_. They bathed him and then slathered him up in lotion. Even the callouses on his organic hand were gone after they'd worked them down. He couldn't remember a time when his skin had ever been so smooth and soft.

 

Absolutely _flawless_.

 

This happened every other day for what seemed like a couple weeks. John didn't show up as often, which meant anytime he _did_ he was all the more impressed with Rhys' progress. Even though most of the time he was happy with the results, they didn't seem to be happening as fast as he'd like. Rhys had collected that John was an impatient man. Restless, too, like he was waiting for something to happen. Rhys hadn't quite figured out exactly what that something was, but it never failed to make him uneasy, so he tried not to think about it. There was something else about this strange, cocky man that Rhys couldn't put his finger on. Something just under the surface of that ambitious, borderline psychotic mentality. Even behind the glint of money in his eyes.

 

Rhys didn't figure out until much later that it had been his own kind of starvation; John was hungry for power.

Despite their prepping and primping, and the fact that he had both his arm and eye back, Rhys had never felt more fragile. Not even in those moments days - perhaps _weeks_ \- ago that he'd thought for sure were his last. Like he was some sort of priceless doll they were trying their damnedest not to break. Even when they placed him in a less hospital-y seeming room in a different wing, the bed felt entirely too soft. Given, for the last few months before getting saved he'd slept on just about every uncomfortable, hard surface one could possibly imagine, so his judgement may have been skewed in that sense. Not that Rhys was complaining. It was really just that he wasn't used to getting pampered, even if it wasn't necessarily for his benefit alone, or perhaps not at all.

 

One late night John came to his room, and Rhys was sound asleep in the giant cloud he'd been given to sleep on. Used to people coming in and out of his room, he hadn't stirred. Plus, he knew whatever he'd been waiting for to happen, whatever they'd been prepping him for, it was supposed to come soon. Seemingly tomorrow by the fervent way they worked at his already perfect skin, and even his physical (or mechanical, in this case) therapy took a more intense turn - without putting too much strain on the rest of his still recovering body. And then they made it seem almost paramount that he get rest. For some reason Rhys' worry was minimal, perhaps taking some sort of comfort in the fact whatever happened wasn't entirely dependent on him, and so he went to sleep with ease. It wasn't until something shocked to his temple that his eyes flew open, nearly throwing himself off the bed when a strong hand caught him and steadied him, pushing him back down into the mattress. Panic ensued, but when a pair of mismatched eyes met his he relaxed somewhat, a new tired curiosity filling his own.

 

"J'hn?" Rhys slurred sleepily, reaching up to tenderly run his fingers over the spot that throbbed. "What're y'doing here?"

 

His hand was swatted away. "Stop moving, Pumpkin. I'm almost done."

 

Rhys' vision started to focus more, and it looked like John was typing in something. He noticed an odd thrum throughout his body. He shifted, wincing slightly at the sudden pull at his temple. Cursing under his breath, Rhys tried to reach up again. Once again, his hand was batted away.

 

"What're you _doing_?" Rhys questioned, a meek demand as his face scrunched up a bit in discomfort and annoyance. What the hell was this guy doing to him?

 

John sighed, as if Rhys' inquiry was somehow unnecessary. "Checking your coding, kiddo. Keep up."

 

Rhys furrowed his brow, but remained still like John had told him to. "Why so late?" He yawned, resisting the urge to stretch.

It was odd to refer to anything about Rhys as his "coding", but he was gradually adjusting. Parts of him were man-made now; mechanical, and he needed to get used to it. As well as get used to people, specifically John, tinkering with the port in his temple like the man was apparently doing now. Perhaps he wouldn't be so disoriented if it hadn't been _this_ that he woke up to. Or rather, woke up _because of_. He dismissed those thoughts, though. It was too late now; he was already awake. And he'd found that - sometimes - John's company wasn't so bad. Not compared to the doctors and nurses, anyway. They never really gave him straight answers and never failed to make him feel inferior whenever they actually _did_ address him. John made him feel small, and the arrogance in his personality made his superiority complex pop, but it just wasn't the same with him. It was just different enough to make him tolerable.

 

"Because I couldn't sleep," John admitted, but it didn't seem like a confession in the casual way he said it. His words were drawn out slightly, like he was distracted, which judging by the way his fingers seemed to be flying across the touch screen he was using, he was. "And I needed to make adjustments anyway."

 

". . . So you come in here in the middle of the night?" Rhys asked slowly, peering over at the other. He was still a bit irritated; Rhys had never been much of a morning person.

 

John didn't answer, just kept typing, his long fingers tap-tap-tapping against the screen. It was silent for awhile, and Rhys could vaguely see the bags under John's eyes by the blue glow of the screen. It looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep in the past few days at least. There were creases by his mouth that accentuated the frown tugging at his lips - probably his resting face. Or maybe one of concentration. Whatever the case, it left Rhys feeling some sort of sympathy for the man. He didn't know why, not quite. John was obviously a Hyperion worker, and with this many connections, he must be pretty high up. John probably hasn't had a hard day in his life, at least not compared to any soul that had lived or perished on Pandora. So he didn't know why, in this one moment, that he felt bad for this man he hardly knew. Maybe it was in his eyes, his tired eyes. John was young, too. Late twenties, early thirties, and yet there were lines in his face that would tell you otherwise. There was this underlying _intelligence_ behind his mismatched eyes, too. Unrecognized potential just hidden beneath the surface.

 

That's when something clicked in him. The determination in John's face, the desperation in each stroke of the keyboard. It was Rhys. Whatever was going to uncover that greatness, that _potential_ , it was in him. Not him specifically, but in what John was building him into. The arm, the eye. The simulations and experiments and the coding. Whatever he was planning, Rhys was the key component.

 

The thing was, Rhys didn't know what to think about that. Not at all, really. Having that bomb dropped on him - by himself, might he add - he didn't even know how to register it. Perhaps he didn't feel anything towards it at all. Maybe he was okay with it. He was alive after all. And not only that, but he had his arm back. Not his flesh one, of course, but one that _worked_ , one that actually functioned. He had his eye back as well, the sight crystal clear and then some. So whatever it was that John was planning... it was okay. It was okay with Rhys, because he was alive.

 

And for once in his pathetic, short life, he _meant_ something.

 

Maybe it was just dollar signs or power, but regardless, to someone out there - John - he _meant_ something. He was valued and taken care of. He was important to someone - _vital_ , even.

 

The thought alone sent a wave of chills through his body, goosebumps rising on his arm. He shuddered a little.

 

"You cold, Cupcake?" John questioned, not looking from the keyboard, just simply raising an eyebrow.

 

Rhys blinked a couple times, not thinking he would have caught that due to the fervent nature in which he was concentrating. Finally, he answered with a nod and a quiet, "A little."

 

That was a lie, he was just playing off the silly reaction to the realization, but John didn't seem to notice or care. He stopped for a moment, though, in his typing with an exhausted sigh before looking at the other. He reached over, and pulled the blankets at Rhys' waist and pulled them up to his chest, then tucked them behind his shoulders. It was so casual that it seemed genuine, like that was just the kind of guy he was, but then Rhys remembered that he was just taking care of his little project, one he'd worked so hard on.

 

He tried not to think about what would happen to him when he was no longer useful. Hopefully it wouldn't be him getting shipped back to Pandora. Maybe he would just get discarded on Helios. He could live with that.

 

Yeah, Helios was better.

 

"Thanks." Rhys said slowly with a hint of uncertainty.

 

"No problem." John replied, returning his attention to the blue glow of the screen. He didn't type now, but his eyes were following the code that was undoubtedly on the screen, line by line, like he was reviewing it. Silence ensued and there was an awkwardness to it that made Rhys uncomfortable. He had to avert his eyes - he still wasn't used to using the plural of eye - and twiddled his flesh fingers, tapping them mutely on his leg under the sheet that John had tucked him in with.

 

To break the silence, Rhys tried to think of something to say, to ask, anything. Before he had had a billion questions, but now his mind was drawing a blank. He sighed quietly, inwardly.

 

"Is the big day tomorrow?" Rhys asked suddenly, surprising even himself for a moment.

 

John looked confused for a moment as he averted his gaze from the screen and rested it on Rhys. His mismatched eyes flicked back and forth between Rhys' own, as if trying to guess how he knew, and exactly _how_ much he knew. It seemed like he got that, after him having gone through this whole experimentation himself, even a kid his age could have picked up on a few things. Rhys remembered before anything big would happen to him - long before his arm had gotten blown off - he would always find it hard to fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried.

 

"One of them, yeah." John replied casually, returning his attention back to the screen.

 

"One of them?" Rhys tilted his head.

 

That's when John smiled. And there was something about that smile, that wide grin, that left Rhys unsettled. "Tomorrow's just the beginning, Cupcake."

 

Rhys swallowed.

* * *

The following morning, once John had finally left Rhys to squeeze in another hour of sleep, was filled with nothing but prodding, plucking, and pushing. There was a certain level of urgency they all moved in, and Rhys felt it enough to feel nervous about what would be happening later today. By the way they were moving, perhaps it would be sooner than later.

 

They bathed him - and at this point, with the same faceless doctors and nurses, he didn't really care about his modesty - and another group of people came in to start working on his appearance. They shaved and waxed every speck of hair from his body, aside from what was on his head. Because he had been starved in that wasteland of psychos and creeps they call Pandora, the hairs on his legs and arms and the like were longer and more coarse - his body's way of trying to keep him warm. There was no need for that any longer, though, even though he still hadn't had a single solid meal, and not some kind of liquid through some tubes. He was no longer starving, and he appreciated the lack of stabbing hunger in his gut. Before he knew it, he was hairless from the neck down, and after they lathered him up in different lotions and the like, his skin was incredibly soft. Any callouses he'd had on his feet or hands were gone as well, and it was strange.

 

It was as if he had never lifted a finger, much less fought to survive on the unforgiving plains of Pandora. Even the scars and bruises from his last encounter with psychos had been healed or been erased from his body in some from or another.

 

Rhys was exhausted by the end of it, and in pain. Not the worst he had ever been in, but the waxing was definitely not a comfortable experience. Neither was getting his eyebrows plucked. Who the hell would ever willingly subject themselves to that?! They ignored his yelps of surprised and unabashedly did the finishing touches. There were always at least three people working on him at one time. It made him wonder how John was able to make all of this happen. Obviously, to have this many connections, he would have to be pretty high up already, but he still wanted to climb higher? Then Rhys considered his personality - or at least what he knew of it - and understood. He was ambitious. Nothing would satisfy him.

 

Not for long, at least.

 

At the end, they were picking out something for him to wear while a woman sat in front of him, a bag in hand. She had kind eyes, decorated in deep, rich violets, making them pop. The purple faded into orange, and it gave Rhys the feeling he was looking at a sunset. Rhys recognized this as being makeup. Her lips were a deep, cool color as well, making the dark makeup around her eyes. It was all a bit dramatic, but it looked nice.

 

She smiled as someone pulled up a chair for her and she sat opposite Rhys. She opened her bag and pulled out a few things, some brushes and tubes and palettes. It became clear to him that she planned on putting some of that on him. He flushed at the thought, biting his bottom lip. He'd only seen his mother wearing it on special occasions - and when he lived with them, it didn't happen very often - or in the women who he'd see disappear into alleys with strange men. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about wearing it himself, but the one time he'd gotten into his mother's lipstick... well, it didn't turn out too well for him.

 

"Don't look so nervous, kid," She spoke with a small, amused laugh. Her voice was soft and raspy, and Rhys found that it suited her. This was the first time any of the staff had actually spoken to him, and he sort of felt human again. "This'll be a piece of cake, compared to the other shit they put you through."

 

Rhys gave a small laugh in return, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah?" He murmured awkwardly.

 

"Yeah." She confirmed with an easy smile, putting him somewhat at ease. "Just relax and try not to move too much, alright?"

 

Rhys nodded, and that's when she got to work.

 

It took awhile before she had finished, and it felt weird to Rhys, having all of this makeup on. And he had no idea what he looked like with it on. Actually, he hadn't really looked at himself since that first day he had been truly lucid. It made him wonder if he looked any less dead. Hopefully if he didn't, that the makeup did. She spritzed him with some sort of setting spray and fanned him until she was sure it had set. She examined him for a moment, expression unreadable, and Rhys messed with the end of his hospital gown. She smiled then and Rhys let out a sigh of relief.

 

"Gorgeous." The woman said, and Rhys smiled. "I might just let you have this palette; it looks _way_ better on you than it does me."

 

He didn't even get to see what he looked like, or thank her for it - or just thank her for treating him like a human being, in general - before he was pulled away to another section of the room where he was immediately an object again. As they pulled some sort of white slacks on him, the idea of seeming like a doll to them crossed his mind.

 

Whatever. He was alive, and no longer on Pandora. Which was all more than he could have ever asked for, so he kept those thoughts to himself.

 

When it was all said and done, Rhys felt exhausted... but pretty damn good, in a weird way. He wasn't wearing a full suit, because the sleeves would have covered his new arm probably, but he was wearing the pants for it, as well as the shirt and vest for it. The pants and vest were white, with the shirt being a golden yellow. The sleeves were rolled up to his skinny bicep, exposing most of his arms. Everything seemed a little too... _nice_ to be on him. Like he wasn't meant for something this fancy, or maybe it was that he felt someone like himself shouldn't be wearing something this nice. But he tried to ignore the feeling, push it deep down inside and leave it there to rot. He managed to do just that, and instead try to fill the clothes out more. Standing up straighter, squaring his shoulders. If felt strange to do this, but it helped. Probably made him look better, too. He was still far too skinny to look healthy, but he was almost certain he must look better than before.

 

It wasn't confirmed until he was pushed to an entirely new section of the room, right in front of a full-length mirror. He watched his own mouth gap in shock.

 

He didn't look like himself. He looked... _good_. The clothes had been tailored to fit him perfectly, so there was no bagginess to it that would accentuate how thin he was, and the colors when along his arm perfectly. He flexed the fingers on his new, robotic arm, and they moved exactly how he wanted them to. When he looked into the mirror, to his face, he could see all of it with both of his eyes. His mismatched eyes, done up in a glimmering gold, almost smoky towards the end as he got close to the eyeliner, which was styled sharp and almost cat-like.

 

"Wow." Was all Rhys said, still in awe of himself. Even his cheeks looked better. Less gaunt and sunken.

 

"You clean up pretty nice, kiddo."

 

Rhys jumped at the voice, looking over to the source. John stood there, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the door, a cocky smirk pulling at his lips. He flushed and curled in on himself a bit, no longer standing as confidently as he had been before. "Thanks..." Rhys trailed off, messing with one of the seams of his vest.

 

"No problemo," John said, pushing off of the door frame and walking over to him. Rhys felt his heart rate speeding up, and he would bite his lip, but he stopped himself before he could. He didn't want to mess up any of his makeup. John didn't stop until he was right behind him, which made him a little uneasy. "You think you're ready for this, Pumpkin?"

 

"Maybe, if you told me what 'this' was."

 

John chuckled. "You'll see."

 

Rhys guessed he would just have to pretend to be satisfied with that answer for now and just roll with whatever John planned on doing with him. It would be okay.

 

He hated to think about what would happen if this didn't go well, so he didn't. It would be fine.

 

It had to be. He hadn't survived all he did on Pandora to get rescued and then discarded like trash.

* * *

The ride there, in all of its tension and anxiety, was a breeze compared to being the in the room with what seemed to be all the people John and him needed to impress. John presented him proudly, showing him off. Rhys found himself uncomfortable being at the center of attention. He was once again an object, but Rhys found it a bit easier to slip into that mind space. To where it was actually okay for these people in their expensive suits to pick and prod at him, to instruct him to do certain things and for him to follow through without question. They were simple things, like testing his strength, do certain movements, see how far away he was able to see. It was strange

 

John told them all about the design of the arm, grasping and pointing to each part of it as he talked about it, as if Rhys wasn't attached to it. Rhys went along with it, moving it when needed, stilling it when not. He shied from the looks he was given, averting his own gaze to the floor, to John, to his arm, anything but the men and women examining him.

 

Everything John was telling them was a lot, but despite this Rhys tried to keep up. There was talk of this technology "changing the future of Hyperion." Rhys made a mental note of that. It took someone ambitious to think more about a damn company than all of the people they could help. It seemed to fit him, the cocky, arrogant man that he was.

 

It seemed to go on forever, and Rhys was doing everything in his power not to squirm. When John got technical, he lost Rhys completely and he didn't even try to understand, instead focusing on his breathing, on standing up straight, being sure to display the merchandise. He wasn't exactly sure if they were on board or not, they all seemed open to the idea, but detached. He was shuffled out of there, along with the interns, when it came to making the decision.

 

Fuck the lipstick, Rhys was anxious. He chewed his lower lip nervously. God. How long were they going to be in there? Should it be taking this long? What if-

 

His thoughts were cut short whenever the door opened, and he held his breath as the men filed out, including the shorter, but more important-looking one that had sat at the head of the table. They all had neutral expressions, revealing nothing to him. That's when John walked out, his expression void of any of his usual cockiness. Rhys' heart dropped.

 

John stopped beside him, his gaze out into the rest of the bustling Hyperion, staring at nothing in particular. God, this was it. This was how his life ended. Not starvation, or exposure, or bandits, or Dahl. Not having his arm blown off, or his eye cut out. Nope. This pissed-off man was going to be the death of him.

 

It wasn't like Rhys had seen him do anything that was particularly violent, but there was just something about him that actually scared Rhys. A part of John that wasn't all cocky grins and knowing smirks. If this hadn't gone his way, Rhys could only imagine what he'd do. Sure, it could just go right back to square one, where Rhys was once again a guinea pig and John would spend many a late night coding something better. But he could easily just get destructive, and Rhys could only imagine what kind of hurt he would face if a nobody like him got in the way in said destructive path.

 

He rested his hand on Rhys' shoulder. Rhys could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. John leaned over until Rhys felt his breath along the shell of his ear. Rhys felt like squirming again, or maybe like running. His legs were barely strong enough to hold him up, much less carry him as he ran. John would just end up catching him. So he just stayed still, body tense, letting the fear wash over him in powerful waves, but tell himself there was nothing _to_ fear. He assured himself that, whatever the case may be, he would be okay. Perhaps John wouldn't want to hurt him at all, and just sort of throw him to the curb so to speak. Something he created that just wasn't good enough.

Rhys could live with that.

 

"We did it, Cupcake." John drawled, low. Rhys could feel him smiling against the shell of his ear. "We did it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John (Handsome Jack) and Rhys made it. Now Rhys gets to stick around a bit longer and become a core part of John's foundation of his rise to the very top. From this point on, I'm thinking about a sort of through-the-years type format, with plenty of angst (and eventually smut ★~(◡﹏◕✿)).
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading, and if you came back to read this chapter, thank you for returning. It's appreciated, and really helps me find the motivation to write, because really that's all I want to do at any given time. I just suck at following through. ^( '-' )^ Send help.
> 
> (And nudes.)
> 
> What. <.< >.>

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Any good? :)
> 
> To be honest, I'm very insecure about this fic. Definitely stepping out of my comfort zone a little bit. I usually like to burrow somewhere between filthy smut and heartbreaking angst, so having. . . no smut for a chapter? I don't even know what I'm doing with my life anymore. I sure hope I didn't botch anything too bad in here. :v Spare me.
> 
> If you ended up liking it, or if you have any thoughts, I'd love to read them so please don't be afraid to leave a comment! Helps and encouraged me to keep on writing. ^~^


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